


Settling in

by tarakai714



Series: Subdued [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarakai714/pseuds/tarakai714
Summary: a little vignette of the boys after their tumble off the cliff.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Subdued [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825081
Comments: 19
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskeyandspite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/gifts).



> I might call this a character study, and there could be more to come.  
> But mostly, I am trying to claw my way out of the shelter-in-place haze.

They have sunk into an oddly comfortable form of domesticity in the new life they share. Will remembers telling Jack Crawford about Hannibal’s agency in the world, but even then, knowing what he knew about Hannibal, Will had no idea how far that agency went.

Will does not care to ask questions. His retrograde amnesia makes it easier to accept the circumstances as they are and follow Hannibal’s lead. He does remember their battle with Dolerhyde, their embrace, that almost-kiss, and the singular moment of clarity he had when he pulled them both off the cliff. Everything else is a blur to him, until the moment he woke up in a large bed with cool sheets, and Hannibal sitting by his side. Even then, Will did not ask any questions. He did not need his profiling skills to realize that weeks had passed since the fall. By then, Hannibal was healthy enough to sit upright and read or sketch for hours.

Will had wondered if Hannibal had kept him under—sedated or in a medically induced coma—for longer than necessary, but in the end he did not care enough to inquire about it. He was now Hannibal’s charge, his cross to carry.

His sleep patterns are chaotic, marred by a myriad of disorders, from intense bouts of insomnia to flashes of memories he does not recognize. Mostly he jerks awake with the phantom feeling of being submerged in murky water, until he is soothed back to sleep in Hannibal’s firm but gentle embrace. Hannibal does not talk to him in these moments. He does not shush him, because he never has to. But there are soft hums, occasional tuts, and gentle rumbles that lull Will back to sleep.

Will does not drink much these days; not because he does not wish to be disconnected from the real world, but because he finds drunkenness exceedingly ineffective in distracting him. They still sit together and drink, in the living room, the study, sometimes the backyard garden, and sometimes at the small bistro near the train station. But Will rarely goes beyond seconds.

The first couple of months following their relocation to Europe, Will struggled as he tried to wean himself off the strong pain medication he was given. Hannibal found his efforts admirable but extreme. Will seemed to be obsessed with the sensation of pain and he would not listen when Hannibal urged him to take his time until his body was ready. 

Hannibal’s greatest concern however is how quiet Will is these days. In the beginning of their shared journey to recovery, it made sense for Will to be a silent companion. Shock, amnesia, and a bleeding gash in his cheek provided sufficient excuses for his silence. But then, with Chiyoh’s help, Hannibal found a competent—albeit shady—surgeon in Greece, who had provided implants in lieu of Will’s two ruined teeth. Yet, even after the post-surgery aches subsided, Will seemed disinterested to either initiate or participate in conversations.

They sit together in comfortable silence on the back deck. Hannibal’s herb garden is lush in the humid July weather. Will wonders if the mint leaves floating in his drink are Hannibal’s recent harvest or from the gypsy vendors at the train station. He was never a fan of cocktails but he has decided to passively enjoy Hannibal’s efforts at entertaining him. To his credit, Hannibal does dial down the fancy in his Will-oriented recipes. Will does not plan to admit that he finds it endearing that Hannibal respects his penchant for keeping things simple. Hannibal always finds a way to make simple look elegant.

The scar on the back of Hannibal’s hand has faded enough not to be noticeable in a passing glance, but it does not tan the same way the rest of his skin does. Will does not know which part of Hannibal’s body Bedelia’s fork was aimed at, but his warning cry had thrown her off course, enough for her to simply take a jab at Hannibal’s left hand that was resting over the table near her place setting. A last-ditch effort at seeking revenge.

Now, healed but marked indefinitely, that same hand is resting over the armrest of Hannibal’s lounge chair.

“It’s rude to stare, Will.”

Will blinks and looks up at the playful expression on Hannibal’s face, giving him a half smile in return.

“Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

He downs the rest of his drink and gets up with a grunt. It’s the most he has spoken during the course of the weekend and Hannibal is beyond amused. He wants to ask what was the “something else” Will was thinking about, but he resists the urge. For now, he is glad to hear his voice. He knows that with a little coaxing, more will come soon.


	2. Feng Shui

Molly’s hair is pulled up into a messy bun. Soft strands stick out here and there, perfectly framing her flushed face. Will recognizes the dark green cardigan she is wearing and that recognition is driving him mad. The last time he saw it on her was during Wally’s soccer game. Surrounded by cheering parents, Will had been absolutely miserable, and yet he was surprised at how excited he got when Wally scored. The rose gold pendant was Will’s gift to Molly on the occasion of their first anniversary. She always had it on, and Will remembers how the tiny moon brushed against the embroidered collar of the dark green cardigan, with its chain resting in the hollow of her throat. She is not wearing the pendant now. Will stares at her neck and how her throat bobs around a rough swallow.

Molly’s lips move and she nods to the camera. She looks defeated but her voice does not shake. Will admires her resolve even though he knows how she breaks down in private.

“Ms. Foster, do you believe that your husband is alive?” asks the reporter off-screen. Will finds the warm monotonous lilt of her voice offensive.

Molly swallows and considers the question for a moment. Her lips part as she takes a breath and hesitates just for a moment before she says: “no.”

Will sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He shuts down the laptop and slides it away on the coffee table. Hannibal clears his throat: “as I said earlier, there is nothing noteworthy in that interview. You needn’t worry.” Will turns from his seated position on the sofa to look at Hannibal. He spares him a glance, eyebrows slightly raised, and continues chopping the carrots.

“Freddie Lounds may beg to differ.” Will gets up and goes to the kitchen.

“Freddie Lounds is a tabloid journalist, who has to rely on ad revenues to keep her investigations afloat. Her nonsensical _tell-all_ is a cult favorite at best.”

It is true and Will cannot deny it. Freddie may be shamelessly invasive in her methods, but outside the US she has little means, and thus little influence. Will is grateful for the way the FBI managed to block the release of certain details to the point that the book did not deliver the teased promises. Will feels smugly pleased about that.

He passes Hannibal and opens the sliding door to the back deck. The flash flood has left the air moist and the ground squishy. Will considers sitting outside but decides against it, instead hopping on the counter and leaning against the cool tile. It irks Hannibal but Will thinks for all the time he does not spend in this space, he has earned the right to occasionally rest his bottom over the polished granite of Hannibal’s kitchen.

The chopped carrots end up in the crockpot underneath the roast. And Hannibal glances at Will as he wipes the kitchen island with a dish towel. He always does this dance of nonchalance around Will, not looking at him intently, busying himself with minor tasks to allow Will to find the words that seem to evade him these days. Sometimes it works, but not this time.

“What do you need, Will?” he asks eventually.

Will takes a deep breath and for a moment Hannibal thinks he is going to say something about closure. But Will hops off the counter and goes on to fill the kettle in the sink: “I need coffee.” He lifts an eyebrow at Hannibal: “Want some?”

Hannibal refuses to get caught in his petulant game of avoidance: “yes, I would love some.” He does not tell Will that what he enjoys the most is watching him brew the coffee. Will always uses the French press. He finds Hannibal’s cold brew tower preposterous but has never commented on it. When insidious thoughts gnaw at his brain, Will soothes himself by brewing fresh coffee, grounding himself in deliberately calculated movements. By the time he depresses the plunger, the aroma of fresh coffee has permeated the humid afternoon air.

“You miss your wife,” Hannibal says and Will despises the fact that he does not even frame it as a question. Will has recently discovered that he does not truly miss Molly. Missing Molly would require him not to hate himself for allowing her to nurse him back to life. In light of recent events, it is quite difficult for him to believe that he fell in love with Molly for who she was. He thinks of the nights of being discovered by her in odd corners of their house; crouched by the cold fireplace, sitting in the cramped space between the pantry door and the fridge, or standing motionless in the middle of the sitting room like an apparition, as he stared at the distant tree lines in the black and blue of Winter mornings. Always in pain. Always desperate for reassurance. He may be grateful for the love and care he received from Molly, for the way she helped him heal until he felt like he was whole again.

“Sweet man” she used to call him. And Will cannot help but wince at the memory. Will does not think he is sweet. He does not think he has ever been anything but bitter. In fact, in the deep recesses of his mind, Will judges Molly for her blind naïveté in thinking that she could send her “sweet man” after the dragon and then wait for him to come back unscathed. But in judging her, Will has to judge himself as well, because he knowingly gave in to the naïveté.

He hands the ceramic cup to Hannibal.

“I don’t.”

He walks to the breakfast table by the window and sits down with his own cup. Hannibal joins him, taking a sip of his own coffee.

“We went to Wally’s soccer game last year. And there was this one guy, macho body-builder dude with a baseball cap that I really wanted to punch.” He swallows audibly and scratches his stubbled chin with the tip of his thumb.

“He was _so loud,_ ” Will says. And it amuses Hannibal to see how the memory awakens embers of rage in him.

“And I didn’t realize that I was staring daggers at him until Molly grabbed my arm and started jumping up and down when Wally scored.”

Hannibal waits patiently for the punchline.

“She was wearing the same cardigan that day… the one from the interview.”

Finally, Will manages to look at Hannibal’s face, holding his gaze for a moment before looking away.

“That was the first time I admitted to myself that I really missed you.” He does not tell Hannibal that he had to get very drunk that night after they went back home from celebrating Wally’s big win. The simple confession has already drained him.

It is oddly ironic to say it out loud. Here, in this secluded location, not unlike his estate in Wolf Trap, Will rarely misses his dogs. He knows they are being taken care of. He does cherish their memory. But the peace he has found with Hannibal has consumed him. It sometimes scares him that his entire world is shaped around Hannibal. He is not always in the center, but he is a constant presence. Will still has no idea how to live this new life, but he has begun to appreciate the delightful comfort of not pretending to be someone he is not.

Hannibal gets up to check on the food. Will collects both their cups and leaves them in the sink. He is about to walk out of the kitchen that Hannibal grabs his arm and turns him around to face him.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Will gives him a polite smile and tries to extricate himself from the hold, but Hannibal does not yield.

“For the record, I think that is an ugly cardigan.”

Will’s chest flutters and he gives a curt laugh at the crude joke.

“And I missed you every day, Will.”

Will turns fully to wrap his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and buries his face in the crook of his neck, knowing that Hannibal will return the embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell that I am not fond of Molly?


End file.
